Footsteps
by inafrozenworld
Summary: They lead separate lives in different worlds but the souls are the same and although they would never meet, the Celes magician was once watched over by an assassin following his footsteps...
1. Part One

**Part One of Two**

Ever since he was a child they'd said that his footfall had been swallowed whole, whether by demons or by the divine, they were unsure. They gave the boy a wide berth, the future asset of the court, the young Empress' secret weapon in the ongoing effort to rid themselves of the North.

Kurogane's first footsteps barely echoed on the floor, resounding only weakly and displaying none of the bounding childish energy contained within his young body. Whether this was some exaggerated folk tale or popular bullshit, as some called it, spread so thin that the boy could practically walk on water by the time his neighbours' lips had stilled, the village was also uncertain. The only thing that could be said with utmost truth, exalted in its reality, was that the boy could stalk a deer with barely a creature recognising his presence. It was fabled and perhaps it was destined but either way the story of this young man with the hunt running through his blood, so natural to him he needn't think of his actions, allowing his limbs to be taken over by cautionary carnal instinct, reached the royalty's ears. And when they saw this young man, strung rabbits lying dead and limp across his chest, bloody necks snapped in his hands, as they carefully watched his movements, deliberate and succinct despite his young precociousness, they saw hope, they felt a requirement lying hollow and vulnerable and saw a means of filling it.

And so Kurogane became a spy.

_ _ _

He'd seen many magicians before. He'd seen their knowing smiles and certain eyes. He could practically smell the reek of their pomp and ceremony, their inflated self-importance bounding through the decorated halls of Her Majesty's palace with such self-centred indulgence it rendered the jade tiles, the beautiful shining vases, each immaculate silken stitch and square of finely polished and stained wooden furnishing as over-blown foreign tack, a culture substandard. He had little respect for their art, a lust for power crippling those that had none. Even countries.

He'd seen magicians and learnt their thoughts and movements. They were men and women wise enough to tell you that your humble ways were wrong so that Kurogane was taught loathe for them. And in so many cases the stereotype fitted which suited him fine. A mind riddled with self-certainly barely has time to recognise the blade, a final order, a desperate attempt to relinquish the gleaming traditional empire from an increasingly dominant Northern grasp, a land of written word and progress, of underlying notions lying stealthily beneath a veil, falling with an assuring breath on their magic to tide them by any issues or problems. Their people did not seem to know hardship or blood to Kurogane, or at the very least this impression was given from their representatives he stalked under royal order and occasionally decapitated with an overly zealous blade.

The head magician was the defining exception.

_ _ _

They'd arrived by their own means, this man and his king, stepping forth from a flurry of light and air so bold and unnatural to Kurogane, watching their immaculate boots stepping from a deft and curled whirl of glittering air, sweeping like artful brushstrokes, shimmering wildly before the court's eyes. And once the magic had disappeared, worn and dissolved into the air, as if it had never even existed, they emerged once more from more natural coverings, removing coats, richly textured, dripping down in expensive trails and lined with fur, wondrously soft and desired, revealing themselves to the thick and hot air of this country.

Kurogane had seen the king before, caught glimpses of him many years ago, narrowed eyes hovering critically in constant vigil. The sight of him was barely a surprise, merely a reminder of his resent, an unblemished body in silken attire, troubles lying distantly from his mind, head crowned in gold and jewels. The head magician, his name scrawled on the parchment order in Kurogane's palm, was a greater surprise, something Kurogane had never seen before.

He removed his hood, he slipped off his jacket, and beneath lay a mop of golden hair, loose strands lying delicately like a beautiful mistake, untended, curling softly against his skin, smooth, white and youthful. This man was young, perhaps the youngest magician Kurogane had ever found and followed, young enough to persuade Kurogane that it might be a lie, an image woven immaculately from words, spells, worn books hidden somewhere deep in a library, echoing coldly and sadly in a frozen world. And yet his eyes spoke a strange truth, dark and mystifying, something Kurogane had never experienced.

He hid in the shadows, a solid and strong body lying in perfect balance against rafters, an art honed to a fine instinct from harsh and punishing practice and experience, behind each smooth, marble column and in the reassurance of darkly cloaked corners, beholding those eyes, sparkling softly in uncertainty, in regret so astoundingly vast it caused Kurogane to pause, his breath to halt and to consider whether this was a magician like those many others whose lips had curled in pompous self-assurance, or whether this man standing solidly, tall and lithe against the tiles, was merely a pool of wonderfully perfected lies.

_ _ _

His consideration continued throughout that day, with every silent and carefully chosen footstep about the palace, watching this magician as he was guided about Tomoyo-hime's grand home, standing proudly as a symbol of the effort and union of the people of this land, each woven strand of tatami mat, every slender shoji panel or tall, oppressive and warmly earthen wall pieced together by rough hands, by those who loved their country, who were thankful for everything their country gave in return.

He watched the silent and curious admiration of this man, sizing him up with a suspicious eye, watching every movement of his lips, a polite remark or question, a brilliant mind seeking answers, every casual drift of his eyes, each clipped step or tiny utterance in a smooth voice, tongue casually unravelling and winding its way around a language far different from his own. Kurogane could hear syllables pronounced and restrained, his throat favouring thicker noises, skimming lightly from his mouth, rolling words into a beautiful, rounded picture. His cheeks were hued red, unaccustomed to the climate, his delicate shirt, gold rimmed and a dulled glacial blue, clinging limply to his frame in the heat although he seemed to persevere the heavy and suffocating air silently, with a humbled acceptance. It struck Kurogane as strange. Magicians are crafters of their own worlds and their own ideals, forming lies from their fingers with such ease endurance became a meaningless irritation.

This train of thought soon became tangled searching vainly for a reason why this man of so many others, this man of great talent and ability would choose to accept these heavy and pressing annoyances of the world, taking each on his back with a natural understanding. It was one of the more shallow mysteries he pondered that day, clinging to rare darkness, his footsteps silently carrying him behind walls and doors, expertly crafted furniture, details protruding gently and amiably, smooth and cherished, in the halls and unseen rooms of eloquent design and purpose.

Each smile the magician gave was not paralleled in his eyes, cold and hard, flowing with a strangely sorrowful edge. They resounded deeply, strange pools of an emotion so dense and lost Kurogane found himself remarking each glimmer within them, each flicker of light played over them, glittering poetically over a sealed wealth of emotion. Something he'd never seen before within a magician. It had always seemed to him, his silent footsteps carrying him threateningly about the back of each magician swathed in velvet, adorned in jewels and precious metals, lavishly polished and shone, sparkling pompously against their unprotected skin, that their lives were rounded and content, that their thoughts were reserved for the present, for the current set of events and politics and pillaging, rather than the past, a mournful breath held in reverence. But at the same time this man, more like a shadow or a ghost as he passed with ethereal presence through Her Majesty's grand halls, perfected in each fine and cherished craft, seemed to live without devotion to the past, without care or thought for the present or future. He merely seemed to breathe, allowing each movement to carry him forward, gradually, surely, carefully as though granted precious knowledge of the future, each footstep painstakingly mapped before him, so attuned to this mournful pace that his body no longer feared the inevitable current, dragging him steadily onwards to his fate. It was an acceptance difficult to take on any set of shoulders whether wide and muscled, thick boned and rough-skinned, nor slender and perfected marble skin lying tender beneath his shirt, decked in a beautiful simplicity previously unknown to his kind.

He was pure and unhidden, he was effortless, shunning the luxury of gold and jewels, of silks and fur, his beauty carried simply in his unimposing grace, wisps of hair and breath, a smile so light and tender it sent chills, a sparkle in his eyes so deep and detached that the world may become questionable, hidden in its subtle nuances. He was refined but he was unprotected.

Kurogane gritted his teeth, feeling his leg muscles tense strenuously, taking the pain with obsessive glee, with commitment and patience, realising sharply how distracted he had become. This man was defenceless and it suddenly became clear to Kurogane this could only signify a threat. His skin was unprotected, wide-open. The spaces where at times the shirt clung limply to his skin proved that his vital organs were uncovered, laid next to bare for the blade, sinking in delightfully, piercing soft and spoilt skin, reaching and clawing deeply until he was wrecked and destroyed, his precious body leaking, shredded. This country was dangerous for his kind. The fact that he didn't attempt to protect his body did not bode well for the assassin, informed him, cunning and yet over-confident, that any attempt made on his life would result in death. Perhaps he'd die on the spot, perhaps ripped to shreds, maybe crumbling to dust to be scattered on the wind, but still to Kurogane this magician held no air of malcontent, no malice capable of achieving the act.

Watching his movements, slow and thoughtful, he perceived a soul free from bitterness, so kind it was perhaps hindered, giving more than it took, wasting away, leaving behind only a single pleasant smile, devoid of emotion. It was the single part of the man that made Kurogane wary, an unnerving twist settling cautiously in his stomach, captivated entirely by the movements of his lips, their lies and their individual meanings. He spent a great deal of time reading his expression, attempting to interpret the significance of each look, of each illusion simply and cunningly crafted without use of magic.

When he was still, when nothing around him pressed for his attention or response then he simply gazed, staring with a quaint tweak in his lips, humble and melancholy. Suddenly the guide would turn to him, perhaps pointing out an antique craft, the shining jade laid pristinely and painstakingly upon the roof, glistening sharply in the sunset glow, gleaming gold along the horizon, a delicate silver box, tiny people drawn lovingly on to its surface, each figure holding its own unique charm on the surface, perhaps towards a blade, its edge glowing with majestic threat, a chill linked intimately with blood. His lips would perk, rising impeccably, politely. His eyes would suddenly sparkle, his face would warm… and then freeze again in a matter of seconds. The lie fascinated Kurogane. It sharpened his eyes, tensed his muscles, watching the magician with care and with awe, disgusted with him but at the same time incredibly cautious.

Through to the gardens, the stones raked with patience and a steady hand, the pacing flow of the world reflected in its lines, an ornamental pond lying pristinely as though bathing itself in the sun, not a single ripple on its glass surface, a depth of green glowing richly. Trees that swayed gentle, whispering softly in the wind under the heat, individual leaves sitting like an array upon their aged and twisted branches, sitting and watching wisely as the magician passed by, placing a smooth hand, long-fingered, fine and delicate, exhibiting both hesitance and strength as it ran gently over the bark, slow and absorbed. Kurogane watched as a faint smile tweaked at his lips, different this time, containing quietened fascination, gazing upon this new world with both interest and respect. And he seemed to have not a single idea of what impact such a simple and gracious movement could hold.

Kurogane's breath caught, his mind flying in circles, spinning wildly and confusedly as he wondered whether he should be suspicious of such an act, of such reverence he was unaccustomed to beholding as he stalked them, self-righteous dictators adorned in gold and wealth, or whether he should be warmed, whether he should embrace this emotion spilling wonderfully in his chest, touching each nerve softly as he gritted his teeth down and focused, sweeping unseen behind columns, each footstep against the wooden walkway silent in the dusk, graciously swallowed as a meal for some guardian demon or god. He did not doubt for a moment that he was a monster, a human who lived solely for blood. Such was what he could give, to both empress and country.

His right hand lay perpetually against the hilt, worn metal corroded against his touch, a slick and dank smell in his sweat as his eyes followed the magician's, taking in their pauses and reflections, paying attention through courtesy, flicking smoothly to the side in thoughtful distraction, drifting upwards as a bird flew by, a beautiful ringing song in its voice, resounding comfortably within the garden, and then shooting firmly over to where Kurogane hid, narrowing darkly and warily…

Kurogane cursed beneath his breath, his heart pounding fiercely, teeth gritted, hand curling tightly around the assuring sword hilt. He pressed himself further into the darkness, blanketing himself with its cold depths in the shadows, listening for footsteps, delicate clicks carrying that light body, hearing out for an incantation, a murmur of the spell that could mean the end of him… He chances a look after a few heavy and tense moments have passed by, throbbing forcefully within his body, gazing into the gardens to watch the magician follow his guide placidly back into the palace.

There was no doubt in Kurogane's mind now that Fye was strong, that Fye was clever… he was the opponent who would challenge his gift, a game that would end in either victory or death.

* * *

_a/n: Stay tuned for part two ;) _

_Hope you enjoyed it. Please review if you enjoyed it, it's only fair really… Plus I'm not sure whether to be proud of this or not so show your support lol _

_Sorry about the reference to my own name, it's terrible xD Also when I describe the way Fye speaks, I was thinking of and listening to Icelandic. It's a beautiful language really, they roll their r's for so long!_


	2. Part Two

**Part Two of Two**

He slumbered while they dined, tucking up in some unknown crevice within the palace, basements and secret doors, sliding beneath his heavy touch. Both the king and his magician would be surrounded by so many eyes that there was no need for Kurogane's expertise, his sharp eyes and his silent movements. Once the dinner was over, Fye was led to his room for the next few nights, decked meticulously in swathes of material, light and airy, rich and wonderful, draping in graceful sweeps and climbs. He'd smiled politely and slid closed the panel door.

Kurogane spied the seal for a moment, waiting for a trick he was only too used to and beheld the warm blue glow emitted between the crack, allowing the gap to dwindle into nothing in a firm lock. He followed a trail, a cramped and dusty staircase, hidden within the walls, tucked away secretively, leading towards a shallow gap between the floors, a tiny space in the boards acting as an eye-hole. Peering through it he could see the magician already fast asleep within his bed, bathed in silks and textures running smoothly and peacefully against his slumbering skin.

And it was usually at this point that Kurogane would tire of his job, of watching every movement, treating every gaze or step with blood-thirsty suspicion. They would do nothing in their sleep, make no movements or remarks, not laugh nor craft their skills. But slowly, ever so gradually, Kurogane became absorbed in this single man's sleep, the way his lips and eyes with twitch as though in pain, opening his mouth gently as if in a half-formed scream, soft and silent.

_ _ _

The cycle continued for another two days. Kurogane slept mostly while the magician ate, followed him every other waking moment, remarking each step, followed through his own silent paces, watching attentively each graceful smile, each kind and distracted gaze, sorrow still gleaming in his eyes, furiously bugging Kurogane, winding his mind and forcing thought until he became infuriated with himself, thrown off by a pair of wonderfully intense blue eyes. Still he stalked him, through the town and in the gardens, in the palace walls and in the forest outskirts, sheltering him in luxurious shade, leaves a luscious green absorbing the sun with succulent growth, something clearly foreign to this man, something strikingly precious as he gazed upon the leaves, felt their waxy texture, thin and smooth lips parted in a tiny and awed gap, glittering eyes half-lidded, the breeze shifting each golden flicker of hair, brushing it against pristine skin, a gentle and tentative dance about his features, a beautiful lie and mystery.

In all the time Kurogane followed him about he showed to malice, he used no unnecessary magic, sometimes forcing Kurogane to wonder if he was even a magician at all. The majority of the time he seemed as fragile as a painted vase, elegant and stationary, left untouched lest it shatter into thousands of infinitesimal pieces against the floor. And yet it was clear that he was dangerous, that he was more powerful than he appeared in his blatant calm when he was solitary, in his patient and knowing gazes, his sharp and cautious analysis of each shadow, feeling Kurogane's footsteps pressing against his mind, his instincts, against his back…

When he was with the king he formed a hard outer coating, a severity not to be dealt with, harsh and clipped words, a steady, even pace and deliverance. Kurogane always felt a strange and selfish joy stirring within him when he met with the king, knowing that when they parted their own ways he would be the sole person in the world to view a change more wonderful than his magic itself – without pausing, without thought or fear, he would remove an invisible mask, shed an invisible skin, throwing it to the wind, crumbling majestically beneath his white and certain fingertips, a sigh and a melancholy breath, suddenly human, suddenly something entirely different, pain returning to his eyes, fate returning to his movements. With a wonderful openness to his movements, a gorgeous fragility and solid confidence to his expression, he would carry on. And sometimes, when the sun shone golden upon his hair, a gleaming crown in its own light, untamed in wonderful curls and flicks, adorning his head with a glorious feather touch, when the light reflected reverence in his eyes, dreaming waves and tides of emotion swirling beneath a steady and firm gaze, when his skin shone a rich and pure pallor, body held elegantly and breath spilling evenly, floating through the thick and moist air like ice rising and spiralling in freshwater, knowing with acute certainty and regret that his breath would continue to flow this way, that his life was longer than his stalker knew, Kurogane wondered if they met for just one moment would he ever reach that marble skin or would he be destroyed with a single inevitable motion.

_ _ _

His interest in the magician was unusual and he therefore saw it as a blessing that he had only to follow his footsteps, noting any suspicious acts or words. He was allowed to tread carefully behind the magician's path without having to take any pressing action. But still, on the final day of the royal visit he found the parchment pressed into his palm, read firmly and fatefully – the request of the assassination of Fye D. Fluorite of Celes country.

He read it, his jaw tightening reluctantly, sweat forming anxiously at the base of his neck but bowed to the official nonetheless, without question, reason or thought of consequence, accepting the removal of life without considering his role in the matter, though it seemed that his was also in tremendous danger.

And so he sat perched above his bed chamber for the final time, blade gripped unsheathed in his hand, waiting for his sleep to enter its deepest reaches before he entered, patiently observing until Fye was as close to unconscious as possible. His fingers twitched uneasily every time he shifted in his sleep, he took a sharp breath each time he frowned, feeling something destructive within his dreams. Finally, when he had garnered the courage and certainty, Kurogane moved silently along the gap, shifting his body cautiously down a shaft then feeling for a gap in the wall with his fingers, blunt and steady. The panel scraped in a hushed and humbled screech and grit of wood upon wood, the assassin stalking carefully through, apprehensively checking the magician's expression… He lay as he had done before, trapped delicately within dreams, swathed and wrapped in thin and yielding covers betraying the graceful line of his body. Kurogane gulped. He could hear his breath, pulsating softly in the warm night air, watch the gentle and gracious rise and fall of his chest, see his fingers opened softly against his bed sheets.

Kurogane stood staring at him for a tense and wonderful moment, beholding him more intimately than usual as he drew his blade, holding it before him, a cold and sickening reflection in the dull moonlight. Slowly, thoughtfully, he reached the side of the bed, just about ground level, a comfortable futon layered in luxurious sheets and pillows and steadily, cautiously, so gradual in pained him, it caused the blood to rush through each inch of him, he lowered himself down beside the man, reaching the dagger out to his neck, coated in delicate beads of sweat in the heat. Suddenly, disgusted, he realised he was trembling, the blade shaking slightly in his hand, hovering close to the magician's body. He couldn't bring himself to swipe the blade along his neck, couldn't fathom how such a smooth and perfected structure could ever bleed let alone tragically spew blood about his body. Kurogane couldn't understand himself, couldn't reason with his own instinct.

But then Fye's breath deepened, his body stirred, shoulders shifting beneath the sheets and Kurogane retreated so quickly back behind the hidden panel he barely registered the slam, hearing only his juddering breath, feeling sick with himself. He took one deep breath then stepped forward, peering through a gap in the panel back into the room. He watched the magician wake, blinking firmly, gradually opening precious eyes, a frustrated sigh and murmur. He threw off the sheets agitatedly, allowing himself to sit against the edge of the futon, bare feet pressed into the tatami on the opposite side of the bed from Kurogane so that he couldn't view his expression, only watch as he absorbed the silent night air for an uncertainly lingering moment, eventually drawing a hand over his brow, feeling the thick and heavy sweat pressed upon it. He lifted his hands beneath his shirt, drawing it up over his back, over his head, shifting strands of precious locks, discarding it to the side and suddenly Kurogane was frozen, eyes widening, mouth sitting slightly open, drawing in the image with greedy and selfish admiration. He could only stare as the tattoo was revealed, firm and solid in shape, arching and encompassing the man's full back, a pure and smooth canvas stretching from nimble waist to firm and wide shoulders, strong and bold against his lithe frame. The tattoo reached around him as though wrapping his frame in tender licks, flicking and sweeping across in bold and grasping arms, the silhouette of a bird traced elegantly, mightily, stretching over him with fierce and overbearing triumph. It pressed, wonderful and noble against the magician's back, hewn into him like a second soul watching over him, the wings stretching and spilling over on to his forearms, curling against firm and slender muscles, draping protectively about him. The head of the bird nestled into the arc of his back, glaring towards Kurogane with strange intimidation, its tail sweeping down his spine, trailing and dripping down the band of his trousers, settled warmly and comfortably against his skin. And gazing upon it, taking in its shape and size, its unsettling glory, it became the incarnation of dedication, hanging there like the result of time and effort, drawn with care and attention into the immaculacy of his back.

But then, unbeknownst to Kurogane it was merely another wonderfully crafted lie.

Still, he gulped, his muscles loosened, absorbed fully in the spectacle of the man's bare back, heart pounding heavily, breath tightening, quickening, sweat treading and dripping awkwardly against the back of his neck, saliva pooling in the base of his mouth. The magician turned about his half-covered form and Kurogane's hand pressed against the wooden interior of the shaft, a slight creak echoing morbidly through the room. Suddenly, Kurogane's heart ceasing all together, Fye flicked his head about glanced sharply over to the panel, to the tiny and tell-tale crack in the wall.

His eyes settled suspiciously, lips shifted over themselves in uncertainty, forcing Kurogane away for the gap, feeling for foot-holds in the worn and rotting wood surrounding him, propelling himself silently, as quickly as his body could manage upwards, throwing himself thankfully into the safety of the gap between floors at the ceiling. A stab of blue light flashed behind him and in the black of the night and the walls, he turned to see a final pulse of light, whispering trickles of ancient text, illuminate the shaft, revealing with a foreboding flash the charred and curled wood inside.

Edging over to the spy-hole, his heart caught in his throat, Kurogane watched as the magician frowned, his finger still raised, a fearful and unimposing weapon, then slowly settled, jaw set tight, calming himself, believing the danger had now been removed and gradually setting himself back down into bed, laying himself to rest once more.

Kurogane sat watching him for another half hour, breathing deeply, almost panting in gratitude, learning respect for the magician's strength and art, its dominance over his own brutal and rather simplistic tactics. He watched him fall asleep, his enemy delving once more into sleep's soft reaches, thinking over his next actions, attempting to identify and label each emotion flying furiously through his chest.

And in all this time lying in the dark, he could only summon two conclusions. One was that this was the first time he'd felt such awe and respect for a magician before, an inhabitant of the cruel and overbearing North. This man was different, there was no doubt within him on that matter… the second was that never before had he felt lust flowing as strongly through him as he had gazing upon his bare back and the tattoo embedded within it. At this moment in time he desired nothing as strongly, wanted nothing so selfishly and painfully as he did now, willing to take the magician's flesh to his own, breathing in every trace of him, pressing his lips with due appreciation to his skin. He felt the temptation writhing beneath his skin, pulsing and dancing sickly as he watched him sleep and eventually came to a decision.

He shed his weapon belt, dropping every dangerous tool and poisonous powder against the rafters, he discarded his blades, setting them carefully against the wooden boards, with reverence and abandonment, peeling off his head covering, revealing his face to the stuffy air, dust hovering wearily and returned to the spy-hole, breath shivering from his body in unexpected treachery. For once he placed himself before his occupation and his masters, eyes narrowing, judging how best to save the magician from his own assassination order – even though he doubted any others would be able to conjure the craft and cunning to take his life – and steal him for his own, capture his precious heart. He would do it… and they could become lovers; he felt the thought running through his head with base and powerful glee, slipping decisively into his mind, throwing each muscle into action.

And there was a forceful stab, a dreadful physical presence in his guts and a hand covering his mouth as he spat blood, bringing him soundlessly to his knees as he gagged and shuddered on the floor, hands shaking as he felt his own blood sliding and curling amiably against his fingers, dripping from his back.

"I know what you are thinking. Right then you were wondering, you were asking yourself if you would ever reach him, if you would ever touch those lips or if you would die in the process…" The voice slithered into his ear, chilling him, pressed right against him as he realised, as he accepted the hole within him bitterly, counting his final moments.

"I don't blame you for falling in love with him," the king whispered calmly into his ear, movements more silent than his own drawing the blood from his body. "However Fye is the type to abandon everything in favour of his emotions. He would set aside that path which I have carved for him for love. I have seen it… and I can't allow it."

Kurogane's fists curled furiously against the rafters, breath fading and ceasing, eyes dimming rapidly as intense pain and anger swept through him, blood oozing sickeningly over the king's fingers, pressed tightly against his mouth. He snatched at the arm furiously only to find his limbs flimsy, his strength deteriorating meekly beneath his skin as he panted his final breaths, his blood pooling about his body with ease. He collapsed to the floor, drowning in that deep and warm liquid, sick and comforting, watching it spill towards the eyehole as though reaching for it, dribbling achingly towards the edge as the world swept away from Kurogane's fingers.

He saw it in slow motion though, watched his blood trickle over the tiny crack, spilling a single drop over the edge with a tremor of his heart, spying weakly the spot landing silently, beautifully and perfectly against his cheek, slipping graciously, trickling kindly to his delicately shaped and stilled lips.

"Don't worry, you'll see him again," the voice finally assured him, sliding and dripping through his consciousness as it slipped away, his eyes heavily closing, "through another set of eyes…"

* * *

_a/n: Hooray for overly romantic presumptions! If you like this then I will be incredibly pleased because I think I wrote all of this in one evening in only a few sittings. I was nearly shaking, I was concentrating that hard! Well hope you like the romantic cheese ^^ Please tell me what you think!_


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